I'm sad, I'm annoyed, I'm irritated. Why? Because I use blogging as a means of working through and figuring out how to cope with my very challenging life -- but writing the kind of confessional posts I sometimes do on my other blog just became that much more difficult, thanks to recent comments made by my local social services to my beloved spouse. Their comments questioned my fitness to parent my profoundly autistic son.
I am a qualified special needs teacher because of my son, and even on bad days, I do a bloody good job of parenting him. I garnered a great deal of respect from my colleagues when I was studying for my autism teaching qualification at B. Uni, not because they thought I was some kind of hero, but because I was an exemplary A-grade student who demonstrated an in-depth practical understanding of the needs of my son and of autistic children in general. I don't take kindly to people calling into question my ability to parent my own son, especially people who have no training or - in my view - demonstrable expertise comparable to my own.
So when a social worker lifted comments made on this blog to suggest I was in some way unfit to parent my autistic child (and that my partner is perhaps too busy to support me), you can appreciate I got pretty fucking angry. Moreover, given the sole intent of these vile innuendos was to pressure me into removing what I considered to be fair comment about my local social services from this blog, you can appreciate the extent to which my anger was informed by utter contempt for an agency which has repeatedly demonstrated a lack of professionalism in its dealings with my family, and now -- it would seem -- utter contempt for principles of free speech and accountability.
In my son's interest, and for the comfort of the majority of staff at my son's social services respite centre who do a fine job despite the constraints of working within a collegial and largely deprofessionalized service, I have removed the offending posts from my other blog. For my son's and their sakes, I will refrain from blogging about their service on that blog, henceforth.
If "experience" was sufficient to learn how to manage children with autism, we'd all be home and dry by now. And the experience one gains with a keen mind and on the back of a rigorous education is not the same as that gained by people who couldn't even jump the exam hurdle at 16. Sorry to be ideological, but your service needs a double dose of managerialism.
Tuesday, 29 September 2009
Friday, 25 September 2009
Tuesday, 22 September 2009
Apple Court aka Fawlty Towers
Apple Court, the residential respite care centre where Marifa sleeps once a week, is quite a lot like Fawlty Towers. Or to be more exact, like Basil Fawlty. Staff are either up people's arses or treat them like dirt. It's easily discernible in the way they talk about different children. For example, one child who sleeps there is the daughter of two GPs. I know them, as aquaintances, and they are not afraid to display their status as a means of ensuring things get done. Sure enough, mention this child's name to staff at Apple Court, and they all but jump to attention. The dog rough parents, and we are counted among those, are the ones who get pissed about -- personal possessions get lost, medication seemingly missed, and so forth.I seriously doubt staff or management at Apple Court are aware of this phenomenon. Lacking genuinely professional management, and with barely a GCSE between them, reflective practice is to be seen nowhere. This is not a place where personal insight or institutional awareness are valued as personal qualities. Instead, in the tradition of social services, we find collegialism gone mad -- a nice idea among small groups of highly motivated graduate professionals, but not here. Everyone thinks they're the boss. Staff talk in loud voices and literally walk with a swagger. Like Fawlty Towers, there is probably enough material there to fill an entire case conference.
Monday, 21 September 2009
Goodbye Gertrude
It's been a busy old day over at Gertrude's old house. Gerty did a flit a week or so back, the latest to be driven out by the nasty Candle family. The builders arrived this morning, and on my way back from the shop, I noticed one of 'em looking very worried. Next thing, a bigwig from Johnny Naff Housing Association turns up, followed by the Gas boys. My nose says Gertrude left her ex-gaff a mess, and knowing the old girl, it wouldn't surprise me one jot. Mind you, the Housing Soc won't be sad to see the back of her.What sickens me slightly is that Gerty was as mad as a hatter - very likely an undiagnosed Aspie (women with Asperger's are notoriously under-diagnosed). All her three kids -- each to a different dad, one girl and two boys -- have special needs. This is someone who should have been actively supported by a social housing Landlord. Instead, not only did they do nothing when The Candles picked on her (as people have for most of her life), but for all intents and purposes, they joined in. We get the same. Marifa is our problem, and any adaptions (and especially any damage he does to the house) is "our responsibility". He's not in a wheelchair, says Johnny Naff, so piss off.
They should be grateful Gertrude didn't burn it fucking down - to a cinder.
Sunday, 20 September 2009
Bigglesworth Drive Begins
Welcome to the a new blog. My name is... well, that's not important. Call me Jonah. I am a graduate professional with a background in education. I live on Bigglesworth Drive, and my teenage son is profoundly autistic. By a way of a pseudonymous introduction, I would like to introduce you to the various people, institutions and organisations who feature on this blog.
Marifa is my son. He's 17, and profoundly autistic. He attends Trebor Nutgone Further Education Unit as a day pupil. The Head is called Alice Blossom, and his teacher Patrick O'Tiddle. It's a brilliant school.
The same can't be said of Apple Court, the residential respite centre run by Trotters Local Authority, where Marifa sleeps over once a week. Autism is a complex disorder, but none of the staff who work there have a professional qualification, despite being paid at the same rate as private sector Nurses. Granted, most of the staff at Apple Court are kind and caring, but they are hampered by Antonio Spineless, the centre's socially inept manager, who is in turn dominated by his arrogant and equally ineffectual deputy, Marcus Prickface.
By contrast, Marifa loves going to Chances, a privately owned fun-centre he visits at the weekend. This is not without its problems, but they and it are very ably managed by the impeccably professional Katrina Smart. I should point out that we are a one income household and Trotters pay for Marifa to attend Chances under the direct payments scheme.
As well as being an employment bureau for the local far-left, Trotters are also responsible for the motley crew of social workers who are supposed to oversee Marifa's social care and help him transition to appropriate adult provision. The most loathsome among them is undoubtedly Nathalie Feckless, a chavvy liar who hides her hypocritical lack of professional commitment behind a tissue-thin veneer of concern. Not suprisingly, she is an ally of fellow status seeker Marcus Prickface. Her line-manager is the drippy middle class Eva Polite, although lurking in the background - and far more influential on Apple Court staff - is another social care manager, Jackie Leninars, a well known local uber-lefty and former classroom assistant who knows far less about autism than she thinks. Finally, there is the Transition Manager, one Barry Handactor, an exemplar of the socially dysfunctional but deviously clever social worker. He wants to treat Marifa like any other child with severe learning difficulties because his priority is the budget. He has yet to meet my barrister.
Marifa is also cared for by two Paeditricians, Myles Windowledge and Professor Kalel. They know an awful lot about autism, and have often acted as informed friends in our various battles with other agencies. Assorted other professionals are involved with Marifa, but I will introduce them as they bob up on the radar.
JC, JM and LC are my spouse and daughters. JC is a Nurse. Both daughters are older than Marifa. LC, the eldest, lives with her boyfriend. She works with learning disabled adults. JM lives at home and works as a waitress. She's hoping to return to full-time education, at some point...
The Candles are a notorious family who live on this street, which is managed by a crap Housing Association called Jimmy Naff. Other families will be similarly referred to in the plural, prefixed by the definite article. I will refer to my own family as The Itchybums. Although I have written rather a lot about Marifa in this intro, and relatively little about Bigglesworth Drive, a considerable amount of blogspace will be devoted to the latter. I am particularly keen to track The Candles, whose swaggering unpleasantness is the cause of much local anguish. At least two families have moved off the street because of them. A near contemporaneous record of their noisy goings-on will hopefully be presented as evidence against them to Jimmy Naff at some point. Sadly, such is Jimmy Naff's crapness that we will probably have to wait until things get completely out of hand - e.g a Candle gets his or her lights punched out. Such is life.
Happy reading!
20 September 2009
Ps. Previous posts have been imported from an old blog, and amended to ensure continuing confidentiality.
Marifa is my son. He's 17, and profoundly autistic. He attends Trebor Nutgone Further Education Unit as a day pupil. The Head is called Alice Blossom, and his teacher Patrick O'Tiddle. It's a brilliant school.
The same can't be said of Apple Court, the residential respite centre run by Trotters Local Authority, where Marifa sleeps over once a week. Autism is a complex disorder, but none of the staff who work there have a professional qualification, despite being paid at the same rate as private sector Nurses. Granted, most of the staff at Apple Court are kind and caring, but they are hampered by Antonio Spineless, the centre's socially inept manager, who is in turn dominated by his arrogant and equally ineffectual deputy, Marcus Prickface.
By contrast, Marifa loves going to Chances, a privately owned fun-centre he visits at the weekend. This is not without its problems, but they and it are very ably managed by the impeccably professional Katrina Smart. I should point out that we are a one income household and Trotters pay for Marifa to attend Chances under the direct payments scheme.
As well as being an employment bureau for the local far-left, Trotters are also responsible for the motley crew of social workers who are supposed to oversee Marifa's social care and help him transition to appropriate adult provision. The most loathsome among them is undoubtedly Nathalie Feckless, a chavvy liar who hides her hypocritical lack of professional commitment behind a tissue-thin veneer of concern. Not suprisingly, she is an ally of fellow status seeker Marcus Prickface. Her line-manager is the drippy middle class Eva Polite, although lurking in the background - and far more influential on Apple Court staff - is another social care manager, Jackie Leninars, a well known local uber-lefty and former classroom assistant who knows far less about autism than she thinks. Finally, there is the Transition Manager, one Barry Handactor, an exemplar of the socially dysfunctional but deviously clever social worker. He wants to treat Marifa like any other child with severe learning difficulties because his priority is the budget. He has yet to meet my barrister.
Marifa is also cared for by two Paeditricians, Myles Windowledge and Professor Kalel. They know an awful lot about autism, and have often acted as informed friends in our various battles with other agencies. Assorted other professionals are involved with Marifa, but I will introduce them as they bob up on the radar.
JC, JM and LC are my spouse and daughters. JC is a Nurse. Both daughters are older than Marifa. LC, the eldest, lives with her boyfriend. She works with learning disabled adults. JM lives at home and works as a waitress. She's hoping to return to full-time education, at some point...
The Candles are a notorious family who live on this street, which is managed by a crap Housing Association called Jimmy Naff. Other families will be similarly referred to in the plural, prefixed by the definite article. I will refer to my own family as The Itchybums. Although I have written rather a lot about Marifa in this intro, and relatively little about Bigglesworth Drive, a considerable amount of blogspace will be devoted to the latter. I am particularly keen to track The Candles, whose swaggering unpleasantness is the cause of much local anguish. At least two families have moved off the street because of them. A near contemporaneous record of their noisy goings-on will hopefully be presented as evidence against them to Jimmy Naff at some point. Sadly, such is Jimmy Naff's crapness that we will probably have to wait until things get completely out of hand - e.g a Candle gets his or her lights punched out. Such is life.
Happy reading!
20 September 2009
Ps. Previous posts have been imported from an old blog, and amended to ensure continuing confidentiality.
Thursday, 17 September 2009
Seeing Kalel
Yesterday, me and the missis went to see Marifa's Consultant, Myles Windowledge. Present: one extremely clever Professor Kalel; a more junior colleague allocated the job of writing out prescriptions; and Myles. Also in the room and contributing, a Learning Disability Nurse (I think), who listened to our pre-consultation moaning with genuine patience and professionalism, although I did wonder whether she might be in need of someone to talk to herself — a long day, perhaps? Our own mood wasn’t helped by a phone call from drippy Eva Polite (Trotters social worker) 5 minutes before, but I’ve had enough of their mutton-headed bullshit for the mo.
Thank God, it’s hard to feel grumpy around Marifa's Consultant. I admire him immensely – and I’m not one who automatically falls in reverence before members of the medical profession as a rule. If you”ve been to Uni and met medical students, you never see doctors in quite the same light ever again. Plus, I don’t do social hierarchies. Anyway, Myles is smart, exceptionally well-informed about autism, sympathetic, and posseses that ineffable talent of challenging bullshit (especially mine) in a way which is always firm, friendly and good humoured. In trying to sort out how to get Marifa to the clinic with the minimum of hastle, it was he who eventually solved the puzzle.
The major outcome is that we agreed to gradually increase the dosage of Marifa's medication, with a view to extending his duration of sleep from the current 6-7 hours to 8-9. Not only will this be good for le boy, but it will also have the added benefit of giving me and his ma more time in bed — and as the clever Prof said, “It’s in Marifa's interest that you be fit and well.”
Thank God, it’s hard to feel grumpy around Marifa's Consultant. I admire him immensely – and I’m not one who automatically falls in reverence before members of the medical profession as a rule. If you”ve been to Uni and met medical students, you never see doctors in quite the same light ever again. Plus, I don’t do social hierarchies. Anyway, Myles is smart, exceptionally well-informed about autism, sympathetic, and posseses that ineffable talent of challenging bullshit (especially mine) in a way which is always firm, friendly and good humoured. In trying to sort out how to get Marifa to the clinic with the minimum of hastle, it was he who eventually solved the puzzle.
The major outcome is that we agreed to gradually increase the dosage of Marifa's medication, with a view to extending his duration of sleep from the current 6-7 hours to 8-9. Not only will this be good for le boy, but it will also have the added benefit of giving me and his ma more time in bed — and as the clever Prof said, “It’s in Marifa's interest that you be fit and well.”
Tuesday, 15 September 2009
Ohhhhhh SHIT….
I got a phone call from the Deputy Manager of Apple Court, Marifa's (social services) respite centre yesterday, regarding a daft telephone call one of the carers made to my son's school last week. The Deputy Manager is called Marcus Prickface. The daft phone call, was, he insisted, “a many headed hydra.” What he meant by that is anyone’s guess, but one thing I do know: it was an attempt to look clever that impressed no one but himself. Then he lied. It was a bare faced, stupid, unambiguous porky. A Norway-sized whopper. Boom!
My grievance was this: a phone call — which might potentially have led to Marifa not attending respite that day (and with the break in visiting routine, effectively never again) — was placed without knowledge of the centre’s manager, who was on duty that day. However, Marcus told me the manager, Antonio, was on annual leave that day. Given the email I sent made it clear I’d spoken to Antonion shortly after the daft telephone call was made, and Marifa's mum had handed Antonio his sleep-over things on that very same morning, that was evidently untrue.
A blatant, ludicrous fib. And I exploded.
The minute I exploded, this fool won. The fact he lied is now overshadowed by the fact I was “abusive” – I called him a “lying bastard”, told him he was “pathetic”, and – just before I slammed the phone down in seething rage – to “piss off”. This isn’t personal. My life-partner, a Registered Nurse, describes him as a “jumped up care assistant”. My mother-in-law — a no nonsense working class Yorkshire woman and a former Shop Steward – sneered at his conceit. My daughter, who herself works with learning disabled adults, put it plainly. “He thinks he knows it all, but he knows jack shit.”
I don’t like the idea of my vulnerable, autistic son attending a resource where one of the managers is a fucking idiot. But that’s how it is, and it’s the only show in town. Most of the time I deal with it. So why did I go off like a volcano yesterday? Exhaustion, mostly. Tired of being tired, I greeted the end of the school hols with a declaration I was going to do everything bar climb Mount Everest. And within a week, I’d run myself into the ground. There is no space to recuperate here. This is the reality of my life — a reality Marcus (and our even more idiotic social worker) cannot appreciate, obscured as it is by the shadow of their monumental egos.
The fact is, when Marifa is at school, I must devote my time to mending myself. So I’ll take my morning walk, write my book, and do 45 minutes Arabic every weekday. Everything else that isn’t essential can wait.
My grievance was this: a phone call — which might potentially have led to Marifa not attending respite that day (and with the break in visiting routine, effectively never again) — was placed without knowledge of the centre’s manager, who was on duty that day. However, Marcus told me the manager, Antonio, was on annual leave that day. Given the email I sent made it clear I’d spoken to Antonion shortly after the daft telephone call was made, and Marifa's mum had handed Antonio his sleep-over things on that very same morning, that was evidently untrue.
A blatant, ludicrous fib. And I exploded.
The minute I exploded, this fool won. The fact he lied is now overshadowed by the fact I was “abusive” – I called him a “lying bastard”, told him he was “pathetic”, and – just before I slammed the phone down in seething rage – to “piss off”. This isn’t personal. My life-partner, a Registered Nurse, describes him as a “jumped up care assistant”. My mother-in-law — a no nonsense working class Yorkshire woman and a former Shop Steward – sneered at his conceit. My daughter, who herself works with learning disabled adults, put it plainly. “He thinks he knows it all, but he knows jack shit.”
I don’t like the idea of my vulnerable, autistic son attending a resource where one of the managers is a fucking idiot. But that’s how it is, and it’s the only show in town. Most of the time I deal with it. So why did I go off like a volcano yesterday? Exhaustion, mostly. Tired of being tired, I greeted the end of the school hols with a declaration I was going to do everything bar climb Mount Everest. And within a week, I’d run myself into the ground. There is no space to recuperate here. This is the reality of my life — a reality Marcus (and our even more idiotic social worker) cannot appreciate, obscured as it is by the shadow of their monumental egos.
The fact is, when Marifa is at school, I must devote my time to mending myself. So I’ll take my morning walk, write my book, and do 45 minutes Arabic every weekday. Everything else that isn’t essential can wait.
Wednesday, 9 September 2009
Skin, And Other Irritations
I’ve got an eczema-like rash on my neck and upper-chest. It’s very itchy, on and off. Among the several daily “ons” is 3am “on”, every night this bloody week, in fact, necessitating my getting up to apply liberal quantities of brilliant white aqueous cream. I’m “off” to see the quack tomorrow, assuming the matches propping open my eyelids don’t snap, hurling splinters of wood into my cornea and blinding me for life. I suppose I’ll still need to see the doc if that happens, and barring death, there is no way I can miss the appointment, or I’ll be struck off the health centre’s patient list. Blind and struck off, now that would be bothersome. Even more annoying that being woken up by a rash every night this week.
Not as annoying as the manager of Apple Court, my son’s respite centre, mind you. It’s a social services respite centre, so his stupidity is to be expected. I ought to be used to it by now, but it’s hard work getting used to someone with the social skills and professional attitude of a dustcart driver. Not that I’ve got anything against dustcart drivers. But I wouldn’t want one running a care centre for people with learning disabilities, although I imagine having the social skills of a dustcart driver is in the social services job description. Social workers’ job descriptions expect applicants to have the social skills of a muppet with its legs ripped off, depending on experience.
One of his respite centre’s staff – we have no idea who, of course – rang my son’s school this afternoon to ask if Marifa would be sleeping at the centre tonight. It’s Wednedsay, it’s term time, so of course he is. Not to mention my partner, Marifa's mother, handed his sleepover stuff to the centre manager personally this very morning, and spent 5 minutes chatting to him.
Fortunately, the member of staff who answered the phone at Marifa's excellent school spotted the caller for a gibbering idiot almost immediately, perhaps when she said, “I didn’t realise the school was back off holiday.” So why ring the school if you thought it was closed, you insightless dimwit? Why not ring me? Or Marifa's mother? Plus, most sensible people making such calls ask to speak to the Head or the classroom teacher. This plonker just rattled off her rubbish to whoever answered – in this instance, the receptionist, who – thank God – is pretty smart as receptionist go. Hence I got a phone call, and immediately phoned the respite centre manager.
Antonio, the respite centre manager – dustcart boy – was, as always, nonchalent. “Oh, I wonder who phoned?” He pondered, as if in a dilemma over whether to have chips or boiled potatoes for supper. He did apologise, granted, but in the same nonchalent tone, as if he was saying sorry for the gravy being a bit too salty. Excuse me? One of your staff rang my son’s school querying whether he would be sleeping at the centre you manage, a member of staff who clearly hasn’t the faintest fucking idea what’s going on. Do you?
Thankfully, enough staff at Apple Court do know what their doing, enough for me to feel confident Marifa will be safe there tonight. Mind you, we still have to ring them up to remind them about his supper. Ineffectual wankers.
Not as annoying as the manager of Apple Court, my son’s respite centre, mind you. It’s a social services respite centre, so his stupidity is to be expected. I ought to be used to it by now, but it’s hard work getting used to someone with the social skills and professional attitude of a dustcart driver. Not that I’ve got anything against dustcart drivers. But I wouldn’t want one running a care centre for people with learning disabilities, although I imagine having the social skills of a dustcart driver is in the social services job description. Social workers’ job descriptions expect applicants to have the social skills of a muppet with its legs ripped off, depending on experience.
One of his respite centre’s staff – we have no idea who, of course – rang my son’s school this afternoon to ask if Marifa would be sleeping at the centre tonight. It’s Wednedsay, it’s term time, so of course he is. Not to mention my partner, Marifa's mother, handed his sleepover stuff to the centre manager personally this very morning, and spent 5 minutes chatting to him.
Fortunately, the member of staff who answered the phone at Marifa's excellent school spotted the caller for a gibbering idiot almost immediately, perhaps when she said, “I didn’t realise the school was back off holiday.” So why ring the school if you thought it was closed, you insightless dimwit? Why not ring me? Or Marifa's mother? Plus, most sensible people making such calls ask to speak to the Head or the classroom teacher. This plonker just rattled off her rubbish to whoever answered – in this instance, the receptionist, who – thank God – is pretty smart as receptionist go. Hence I got a phone call, and immediately phoned the respite centre manager.
Antonio, the respite centre manager – dustcart boy – was, as always, nonchalent. “Oh, I wonder who phoned?” He pondered, as if in a dilemma over whether to have chips or boiled potatoes for supper. He did apologise, granted, but in the same nonchalent tone, as if he was saying sorry for the gravy being a bit too salty. Excuse me? One of your staff rang my son’s school querying whether he would be sleeping at the centre you manage, a member of staff who clearly hasn’t the faintest fucking idea what’s going on. Do you?
Thankfully, enough staff at Apple Court do know what their doing, enough for me to feel confident Marifa will be safe there tonight. Mind you, we still have to ring them up to remind them about his supper. Ineffectual wankers.
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